


Career Day

by TheSkyLarkin



Series: SkyLarkin's Whumptober 2020 Fics [12]
Category: Ni No Kuni: Wrath of the White Witch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt No Comfort, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Injury, Mentioned Emperor of Hamelin, Mentioned Former Empress of Hamelin (OC), Mentioned Lars | Marcassin, Missing Scene, Whump, Whumptober 2020, this poor kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27248467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSkyLarkin/pseuds/TheSkyLarkin
Summary: After setting off on his own on a whim, former Prince Gascon gets a rude wake-up call from a chance encounter and decides what he wants to make of himself.Challenge: Whumptober 2020Prompts: No. 28 - “Mugged"See End Notes for comprehensive warnings/tags
Relationships: Emperor of Hamelin & Jairo | Swaine, Jairo | Swaine & Lars | Marcassin
Series: SkyLarkin's Whumptober 2020 Fics [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946617
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Career Day

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn’t able to find a conclusive answer to how old Swaine is supposed to be, and therefore how old Gascon is during the “fifteen years ago” time travel segment. Gascon seems a little older than Oliver and Esther, so let’s say he’s about fifteen years old here.
> 
> Thank you to cherryslibrary ([Tumblr](https://cherryslibrary.tumblr.com/)/[Ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryslibrary/pseuds/cherryslibrary)) for beta reading!

Gascon’s life ended in a dingy back alley of a poverty-stricken town on the Autumnian coast so tiny that it didn’t appear on any of the maps of the continent he’d ever seen. He’d been walking along, just minding his own business when three men (bandits by the look of them) came out of nowhere and jumped him. “And just where do you think you’re going, you little thief?” the oldest-looking bandit growled at him while his compatriots both held one of Gascon’s arms, twisted into a painful position, leaving him unable to fight back.

“Me? A thief?” Gascon repeated, trying to sound like the picture of innocence—as if he hadn’t just taken a purse full of guilders from off the table right by this man’s arm in a nearby tavern moments ago. “I haven’t stolen anything!” If the money had (probably) already been stolen before, it was hardly stealing on his part then…

“Oh, you ‘aven’t, ‘ave you?” Before Gascon could react, he was knocked to the ground by a kick from a steel-toed Hamelin boot that caught him right in the ribs. It had been raining all of last night, so he fell face first into the mud and was pinned to the ground by one of the man’s lackeys as the other riffled through his pockets. The man, who was all but sitting on Gascon, drove his knee right into the spot where his boss had just kicked without warning. Gascon grit his teeth to deny him the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain.

Finally, the bandit that had been searching through Gascon’s pockets found what he was looking for and tossed the purse full of guilders to his boss. “Then what’s this, then?” the bandit leader asked jeeringly as he held up the stolen red purse with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, that? I, ah, found it on the ground earlier and I was just looking for its owner— mmph!”

The bandit on top of him pushed Gascon’s face into the mud with a low chuckle before the boy could finish the rest of his sentence. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, he held Gascon’s head down just long enough for him to feel as if he was about to suffocate before letting go. “Do I look like I was born yesterday, boy?” the leader sneered at him as he gasped for air, coughing up mud. “If you're going to be stealin’ from us on our own turf… then I guess we’ll just have to repay the favor in kind, won’t we lads?”

His two lackeys snickered, but Gascon knew that the threat was an empty one—they weren’t going to find anything else in the empty pockets of his. He’d left Hamelin behind with just the clothes on his back, not even bothering to return to the Palace and pack a satchel just in case he’d been caught by the guards, Marcassin, Oliver and his friends, or even his father. He was going to find his way in the world on his own, and he meant it!

But in hindsight, it would have been a good idea to bring along some guilders, food, or anything at all really. He deeply regretted having given away his sword to Marcassin (who was much too young to use it yet, even if he would certainly put it to better use one day as both a Great Sage and Emperor of Hamelin) now, as he’d tried to apply at the local hunting guild (since this town was far too small for a proper machinist’s guild) and was turned away for not having a weapon of his own. Plus, with the sword still in his possession, he would have never been overpowered by these common thugs!

Gascon’s knife—a generic blade he’d taken from the Hamelin armory years back and evidently not missed at all—had already been sold to buy the only food he’d eaten in the last five days. His jacket, made from some of the finest woven threads in the kingdom, might have fetched a handsome price… if it hadn’t just been irreparably stained with mud. Hopefully, the bandits would just give up and leave him alone once they realized he didn’t have anything worth stealing—

“Oi, what’s this?” A sharp tug on the chain around his neck, hidden under his clothes, and Gascon realized that he’d forgotten about the ring that was too big for him to wear as anything other than a pendant. It had belonged to his grandfather but more importantly to him, it was an heirloom his mother gave to him shortly before her death. Weakly, she had apologized for not being able to live to see him grown up enough to wear it properly, and only the presence of Father in the room with him and Marcassin (far too young to even remember their mother’s face at all) had kept him from bursting into tears.

“No!” With a feral snarl, Gascon managed to wrench his hand out from under his captor’s weight and grab onto the ring before the other bandit painfully snapped the chain off his neck. The bandit tried to pry the piece of jewelry away, but Gascon managed to slip a finger into the ring and clench his hand into a fist with all his might. “That’s mine!”

“Is it now, boy? Looks to me like it doesn’t even fit you.” The bandit leader walked over just as his lackeys had managed to pin down Gascon. Without warning, he slammed his boot down on Gascon’s hand, just barely missing his own comrade’s hand. The other bandit leaped back with a startled yelp and reproachful glare at his boss, but he was the lucky one. Gascon’s screams echoed through the alleyway as the boot slammed into his fist with a sickening crunch and spikes of pain raced through his hand upon contact.

But while Gascon still had some feeling in his hand, he wasn’t going to let go of that ring. He wasn’t going to let go of the only thing left of his family… So the bandit leader brought his foot down upon the boy’s hand until it was smashed to a bloody pulp and he was writhing on the ground in pain, too much pain to resist as the bandit reached down and plucked the ring off of his broken finger. Even his lackeys looked kind of queasy as they watched him examine the now-bloodstained ring and then try it on.

“See that? Fits me just perfect.” The bandit leader flashed the ring and a self-satisfied grin at Gascon, who had instinctively curled up into a ball–too busy quivering in sheer agony to respond to the bandit’s taunting. Both of the other bandits had backed away and were now watching the scene from a few feet away—oddly apprehensive for a pair of bloodthirsty bandits—as their leader leered over the former prince again with a predatory smile.

“You’re from the capital, aren’t ye boy? I can tell by that fine quality clothing of yours,” the boss remarked as he casually shoved Gascon into the mud again with a flick of his boot. His “fine quality clothing” was now utterly drenched and filthy, but at least this time he kept his jaw clenched and didn’t get a mouthful of mud. “Ain’t no one in this wastrel town got the guilders for threads like those. Or a ring like this—a pretty little piece o’ gold and jewels like this one will feed a family for a month!”

Gascon furiously blinked the dirt out of his eyes and suddenly the bandit leader’s face was way too close to his. “That’s right, I know your type: rich tyke out in the world with no parental supervision for the first time in his life. Probably just fresh off a fight with your old man too…” his voice trailed off in a snicker, but the amusement in his voice didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “But this ain’t Hamelin with all its glistening machines and its wealth, this is the real world now, son! Your kind don’t belong here, stop playing pauper and go home!”

“Don’t you see, I’m doin’ you a favor!” Gascon wanted to scoff and ask the bandit what his definition of “favor” was, but luckily his survival instincts prevailed and he wisely kept his mouth shut. “If I were some real piece of work, I would’ve gutted ya like a fish or sold you to the slavers for darin’ to think you could be stealing from the likes o’ me! But… I gotta kid brother back home who’s ‘round your age—he’s just as prideful an’ stupid too.” One of the bandits couldn’t help but snicker at that, but shrunk back as his leader fixed him with a death glare for his insolence.

“So, I’m gonna let you off with a thrashin’ and a warning,” the bandit leader continued as he stood up. “You’re too soft to survive out here; Daddy’s money ain’t gonna save you. Look at the late Emperor of Hamelin: he was the richest of them all, and yet he couldn’t save himself from the Dark Djinn! Now run on home, before you get into somethin’ you can’t talk yourself out of, like an early grave.”

With a motion of his hand, the bandit lackeys started to follow their leader out of the alleyway as the first droplets of rain began to fall. “Oh, and—” the leader turned back to look at Gascon, covered in mud and unable to even lift his head up through the pain and sudden exhaustion. “—I’ll be taking this little trinket as payment for me mercy and wise words of wisdom. Consider us even.” With an exaggerated wink, he rounded the corner and disappeared from Gascon’s sight, with his flunkies snickering in his wake until their voices were lost in the sounds of massive raindrops drenching the ground as the sky above opened up.

Normally, Gascon would’ve had too much pride to not call after them and try to get the last word in, but he was too hurt and shocked to get up from his puddle even as the downpour began and the water rose. Father has been killed? By the Dark Djinn Shadar? Impossible… Father was one of the Great Sages, there was no way he could have been killed…

…by the same powerful and malevolent force that had leveled the entire floating continent of Xanadu, and had already killed at least one of the other Great Sages… Using his uninjured hand, Gascon managed to slowly hoist himself up into a sitting position and shimmy his way underneath a nearby bit of roof that was slightly more dry than the rest of the alleyway, with some difficulty and a whole lot of pain. But at least this way he wasn’t getting the brunt of the rainstorm as he tried to process this bit of news.

Could the bandits have been lying to him? Why would they—they didn’t seem to recognize him as the former crown prince of Hamelin, just a runaway rich kid. The Dark Djinn’s attack must have occurred sometime after he’d left the Palace with Marcassin to chase after Oliver and his friends, otherwise he’d never have left Marcassin alone to deal with the fallout of their Father’s death alone...

Gascon curled up into a ball under his ramshackle shelter, cradling his injured hand as he pondered what he should do. Go back to Marcassin and Hamelin? He promised to be there for his younger brother if he were to get into any sort of trouble… But what help would his presence bring by going back now? If anything, it might start a fight between Father’s former ministers as to which brother should take the throne: he had taken himself out of the line of succession on account of his lack of proficiency with magic, but in a time of crisis, there would be some who would blanch at the idea of having such a young child as the heir apparent. What if he just made everything worse by going back?

And the ring, he can’t go back until he’s gotten his mother’s heirloom back from those bastards—

Wait, Mother wouldn’t have wanted him to use language like that. Uh… until he’s gotten his mother’s heirloom back from those coxswains! (That’s better, he thinks. He’d heard someone at the Palace use that word as an insult before… at least, he thought he did...)

No, Gascon can’t go back, not until he’s recovered what has been taken from him and he’s found what he’s good at in life. Otherwise, he’ll just be getting in Marcassin’s way. Their father had said that Gascon needed to find his own way in the Empire if he couldn’t follow the path of the Sages. But even after thinking about it every waking moment he wasn’t just struggling to survive days after he’d left the kingdom, he still didn’t know what that way was.

What is Gascon good at? Not magic, obviously. Fighting? Clearly not, otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting here, injured and miserable. He thought he’d been skilled at being sneaky, but those bandits had found him out pretty quickly. What has he ever been good for?

It sure wasn’t picking a spot to stay dry in, he soon found out as the roofing above him suddenly creaked and groaned before drenching him in cold water. He gripped his injured hand tighter to stop it from aching as he started shivering, and looked around wildly for another place to take shelter from the sudden storm. Sure his hand looked bad now, but it could easily be healed once he found a sympathetic wizard to help him out. Healing Touch wasn’t a difficult spell—at least, not for anyone with at least an inkling of magic in their bones—there must be someone around here who can cast it...

No matter how much his body hurt from the bandit attack, Gascon’s pride was wounded far worse. If he was ever to see his lost heirloom again, he would need to get stronger or sneakier (or both) in order to either take or steal back the ring from those bandits. He pictured the face of the man who had taken his mother’s ring—a squashed nose, sandy-colored hair, green eyes—and tried to burn that image into his brain. Without even a name to go on, a mental image of his tormentor was all that Gascon had to track the bandit leader down and make him pay for what he’d done.

But how? Neither all the tutors in the Palace nor all the time he’d spent in the back alleys of Hamelin had prepared him for this. What had all of that been good for in the end, if he was just going to be killed by the elements after not even a week after leaving home?

What is Gascon good for?

And then it hit him. What had he said to that pretty blonde girl from Al Mamoon? “I don’t change my mind once I’ve made a decision. That’s the Gascon way.” Maybe that was the problem—maybe the “Gascon way” wasn’t the right way for him to live anymore, especially since he had renounced his claim to the throne and traded a life in the Palace for a life on the streets.

Maybe those awful bandits were right, maybe someone like him could never survive outside the walls of Hamelin—and therefore it was Gascon himself who needed to change if he was going to stay alive long enough to find his place in the world. To stop being Gascon and become someone who could not only survive on his own, but also take back what had been stolen from him without being caught—and more besides.

As the rain washed the last of the mud from his clothes, Gascon closed his eyes for good... and Swaine opened his for the first time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Constructive criticism is appreciated!
> 
> Triggers/Warnings: Whump of a Minor, Brief Graphic Violence, Brief Torture, Injury, Character Death (but in a metaphorical way), mentioned Canon Character Death, Emotional Whump, improper use of the word “coxswain” (it’s not his fault, this kid doesn’t know the first thing about boats)


End file.
